Up Past Dawn
by lealila
Summary: Sometimes, Sherlock spends more time on taking care of John than on cases. Sometimes, John spends more time on cases and Sherlock than he does on himself. More or less canon compliant. No slash.


_**excessive use of parenthesis lay ahead. and apparently, sherlock isn't as observant as we think he is. takes place during the first season.**_

_**started out as a sherlock-taking-care-of-john fic (which it still kinda is) but really, just examines sherlock and john's friendship. **__**and sherlock's addiction to cases, of course. (but in a minor/implied way).**_

_**no slash. has not been brit-picked; apologies for any mistakes. reviews are appreciated. there's a planned/half-written sequel in the works; keep an eye out, if you're interested.**_

_Up Past Dawn (and still, nothing to show for it)_

_sometimes, sherlock spends more time on taking care of john than the does on solving cases. sometimes, john spends more time on cases and sherlock than he does on himself._

Sherlock does not expect to get a flat mate any time soon, if ever. He does not care, truly, for everyone else is blah and dull and plain _ordinary_, not to mention that everyone tells him to "piss off" every time he relates their life story. Ordinary people distract him constantly, even if they somehow tolerate each other in turn—Lestrade and Molly, for example.

(Sherlock tells Mike Stanford this when he asks, and does not expect the professor to prove him wrong. Still, when Stanford brings an army doctor to him just hours later, he is only a little surprised. At least, for a second. Maybe. The world is so tediously predictable most times.)

Doctor John Watson is not so easy to relate his life story.

That is to say, he's not _difficult_, but Sherlock cannot get _everything_. Really, he mainly sees the psychosomatic limp and the nostalgia for war. Sherlock finds it...odd that John calls his deducing brilliant without a hint of mockery. Sherlock does not understand why John goes along with everything he tells him to do. Sherlock is surprised when John defends him when Lestrade and his team search his—their?—flat, when the cabbie serial killer falls down dead from John's gun. Sherlock does not understand why the doctor's behavior does not waver, even if he does call him _childish _and _arrogant_ and some other obscenities.

(But then, Sherlock supposes this is a term of friendship. He knows John never means them, truly; not for long if he does. He is the same way, he thinks.)

Sherlock does not understand but sees anyways, that John is just like him, but in all the wrong ways. Sherlock understands but does not see that John is nothing like him, but in all the good ways.

_(Seeing and understanding does not mean Sherlock knows._

_John, likewise, does not know._

_Holmes and Watson are very good at missing the most obvious traits of each other. But then, most best friends are.)_

The first time he comes to this realization, they are working on the number case. Normally, John has no trouble keeping pace with him, but as they walk around China Town, Sherlock notices that John is lagging behind. He spares him a glance, and John shrugs apologetically.

"I haven't eaten in three days," he explains.

This makes Sherlock pause. He does know that John needs sustenance like boring people, but he has never truly taken this into account. But then, this is the first case both of them are truly working on together. In their first month living together, John has made sure Sherlock had food in his kitchen—and that he partake in some of it—something to keep him occupied—if briefly—and sometimes not really helps him on cases that have never lasted more than two days. That has been the sum of eight-percent of their interaction.

This particular case is on its third day.

"Oh." He pauses a bit before adding, "Would you like to get something to eat?"

John hesitates, torn between the case and his own personal needs. "It wouldn't be any bother? I mean, the case is important, and—"

Sherlock just walks into the nearest restaurant.

Sherlock makes sure John gets something in his mouth before he dashes off again with John at his heels, solving the crime in just one more day.

Sherlock is gunfire bright afterwards, a bullet straight out of the barrel. Steady streams of cases are handed to him from Lestrade, reluctantly or otherwise. He drags his flat mate along because he does help, sometimes. Sometimes, John asks the right questions or he drags out information from witnesses that Sherlock can't. With two people, Sherlock can send John out to look into a lead that he can't be bothered with otherwise.

(The company isn't so bad either.)

Two months and eighteen days pass (Sherlock does not know this exactly: time is meaningless, a distraction) after the code case ("The Blind Banker," as John has called it in his blog), John passes out in the middle of their flat, one o'clock in the afternoon. Sherlock is in the middle of connecting the comb to the murder when John succumbs to fatigue.

"John? John!"

He kneels next to his friend, checking his pulse. "John. Can you hear me?"

He _hum_s, acknowledging Sherlock's question. Sherlock frowns.

"Are you alright?" Of course he isn't alright. People don't just collapse for fun.

John exhales slowly, carefully, before answering. "Exhausted..."

This, of course, confuses Sherlock. He knows that people need sleep just as much as he needs cases. But for all his brilliance, Sherlock has a hard time connecting _knowing_ and _understanding_—even if he has gotten better at it since John came into his life.

He is not a sentimental man—he knows this, and does not care anyways. Sherlock survives on facts and knowing improbabilities. Feelings are transport—they get in the way of him solving the case, of pausing and—

John _hum_s again, meeting his gaze with the intensity that Sherlock is used to, except there is some hidden depth that he cannot even try to fathom. "I think I need a break. From the cases. Just for a little while."

Sherlock has nothing to say to that. Instead, he helps John to bed, brings him some tea, and finishes the case in ten hours. When he comes home, the tea is gone, and John is fast asleep.

(He doesn't wake until Tuesday. Sherlock never knew that people could sleep for forty-eight hours straight.)

Sherlock still takes cases, feeling the ache that isn't having Dr. Watson by his side. He gets bored awfully quick and John refuses to let him turn down one if he asks. John hardly sees him for Sherlock is a flurry of movement, dancing with the danger that brought the flat mates together. He's rarely still, even though the cases seemed to have slowed, just a bit. He spends more than a day with absolute free time, most which he spends at St. Bart's instead of at 221B Baker Street.

Molly does not hover so much and he has never been so thankful before.

John eases himself back into daily routine. He spends a week at home, sitting and eating during the day, sleeping eight to ten hours at night.

(He does not dream and while that is reassuring, it is also frightening—John rarely has a night without dreams.)

After the week is over, he goes back to the clinic, working part time; he comes home with a little more life in his eyes, a little more energy, and sometimes milk and beans. Sherlock only knows this because he asks, only sometimes in person.

(Despite John's constant urging, constant support (_it should be the other way around, even if sherlock tries)_, Sherlock hates that he's rarely home, that he rarely sees his flat mate, his blogger...his friend. They work great together, work miracles and save lives and fight a war that ninety-nine percent of London is too daft to see.)

(Sherlock misses having someone to talk to.)

A month passes when John is finally ready to join Sherlock on the battlefield again. Sherlock notices the hunger in his eyes—he's missed this as much as Sherlock has.

(Holmes—and Watson—are starting to understand.

They do not know this, of course.)

Except this battlefield is messy and twelve people are dead and for one brief horrible awful moment, Sherlock thinks John is the puppeteer. But no, he's just the puppet and the bomber—Moriarty—is holding all the strings

For the second time, Sherlock is asking if John is alright and hates himself and Moriarty and human mortality while doing so.

He nods, not making a noise this time, but the similarity between the collapse and here is uncanny.

This time, afterwards, there is no fallback no pause no _i think i need a break just for a little while_.

(_i can't do this sherlock sherlock i'm not a god sherlock—_)

(Sherlock is not a hero—he told John, he told him that heroes don't exist especially when Sherlock is involved. But walking out of the pool where Carl Powers died, he wonders if this is what heroes do. He is, of course, referring to John.)

Something changes between them, and this time, Sherlock can almost connect the _knowing_ and the _understanding_. John still refuses to mention when he needs to sleep or eat, or even just sit down five minutes. But Sherlock pays attention to time and more so to John. He makes sure he eats (makes sure he doesn't dash off before John has gotten a few bites), doesn't bother John if he falls asleep in cabbies or the morgue or in the middle of a crime scene.

At least, not for long. They _do_ have a murderer or a rapist or _someone_ to catch, after all.

John smiles and laughs, chasing at his heels and Sherlock smiles and laughs and leads the way into the firefight.


End file.
